


honey, there is no right way

by Xanisis



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/M, but then sadness happened, i meant to write fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanisis/pseuds/Xanisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re dead,” he tells her, as if she doesn’t already know.<br/>Her bright lips curve into something resembling a smile<br/>“They keep telling me that," she says, "but it keeps not being true.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	honey, there is no right way

A dead woman follows him around.

“You’re dead,” he tells her, as if she doesn’t already know.

Her bright lips curve into something resembling a smile

“They keep telling me that," she says, "but it keeps not being true.”

It’s not quite the reunion he was anticipating.

(He wasn’t anticipating a reunion at all.)

 

.

 

There is blood on his suit. This is not what he should be thinking about, but the alternative is too grim.

He will have to soak it in baking soda overnight and even then the fabric is probably not salvageable and Peggy is dead. Peggy is dead. Peggy is dead.

 

.

 

They’re running and she grabs his hand, pulls him after her down an alley. He thinks of Ana’s hands, smooth and soft and worn, as familiar to him as breathing. Peggy’s hand is calloused and rough, a soldier’s hand, a hand that fights, a hand that hurts.

They keep their fingers clasped even once the danger has already passed. They don’t talk about it after.

(There are a lot of things they don’t talk about.)

 

.

 

The telephone rings in the middle of the night, he rolls over, knows who it is before he even picks up.

“Mr. Jarvis,” she starts before he’s even fully awake, “I require your assistance with something.”

He feels Ana’s sleepy arms wrap around him.

“Who is it?” she murmurs against his neck.

“Wrong number,” he says, hangs up the phone.

(But he gets out of bed as soon as Ana falls back asleep, wonders when he became a liar, wonders what would happen if he didn’t come when she called.)

 

.

  
  


“Dance with me,” she says, tugs him towards her, buries her face in his shoulder.

He wraps an arm around her and tries not to be distracted by her warmth and the way her hair tickles his neck and the texture of her skin, tries not to breathe too heavily or clutch her too tight or pretend that holding her is anything other than a way to disguise her features.

(He finds that he’s not as comfortable with this spy business as he’d liked to think.)

 

.

 

There is a shot and he is running, but he is too late.

(Her blood stains his suit and he has to throw it away. It is his favorite suit, but there it is.)

 

.

 

The phone rings in the middle of the night. He rolls over, goes back to sleep.

It's not her, he tells himself, however much you want it to be, it's not her.

 

.

 

"I just don't understand why you must always put yourself in danger," he says, threads a needle through her skin.

She doesn't even flinch as the metal kisses her flesh.

"I'm doing what I think is right, Mr. Jarvis."

You are not Captain America and you are not Betty Carver, he thinks but does not say, you're just a woman who's too foolish and too brave and is going to get herself killed one day.

(Being right is not always satisfying, he finds.)

 

.

 

There is a woman and she is dead, but maybe she isn't, maybe she smiled at him with bright bright lips, maybe she is real, maybe she is waiting for him. He can't seem to wrap his mind around it.

 

.

 

The phone rings in the middle of the night. A ghost is on the other end.

"Mr. Jarvis," she says, the cadence so familiar, "I require your assistance with something."

"You're dead," he says, even though he's said it before. Crazy people do the same thing and expect different results, he remembers.

 _I watched you die,_ he doesn't say.

 _I held your hand as the life drained from you,_ he doesn't say.

 _I still see you, sometimes,_ he doesn't say, _and I can't tell if you're real or not._

"I thought we'd gone over this," she says. “Appearances are everything.”

 

.

 

She slips her hand through his, clutches it tight like a warning, like a gift.

She presses red lips to his cheek, a ghost of a touch. His eyes are tight ahead, watching the crowd.

“What was that for?” he asks her.

“Appearances are everything, Mr. Jarvis,” she tells him, removes her hand from his.

His hand feels empty where hers was. He wishes it didn't.

(He wishes a lot of things.)

 

.

 

They are sitting in her booth. He is drinking tea with a dead woman. He could laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“How did you do it?” he asks her.

“How does anyone do anything?” she replies, smirks around the lip of her cup.

“Don’t play coy with me, Ms. Carter.”

“It’s better for you if you don’t know,” she says, eventually.

“Pardon my language, but that’s bullshit.”

Her eyes look older than the rest of her.

“I came back because you needed me,” she says. “Not the other way around. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

The click of her heels resounds in his ears. He should go after her, he thinks, but he’s not entirely sure if she’s real or not. In his mind, she never answers his questions either.

 

.

 

“Where do you go at night, Ed?” Ana asks, voice soft, face pleading.

“I go for walks” he says, drops a kiss to her temple. “I need some time for myself”

He’s not lying and that makes him sadder than he ever thought it would.

“Night walks?” she asks, laughs, reaches for him.

“Night walks, my dear,” he replies.

The roast will be done soon.

“Whatever for, Ed?”

“I’m trying to get acquainted with my own mind.”

He can tell she doesn’t really understand, but then again, neither does he.

 

.

 

He is sitting in her booth again. He comes here a lot these days.

“Anything I can get for you, hon?”

“No. No, thank you,” he replies.

“Hey,” the waitress says, “I know you. You’re Peggy’s gentleman friend, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly-”

“No need to explain yourself, doll,” she says, sliding into the seat across from him.

He fiddles with his cup of tea. The waitress -- Angie, he remembers Peggy telling him -- looks at him with soft eyes.

“You miss her,” she says, not a question.

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” she replies, as if admitting it costs her nothing. “Every day.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“I didn’t really know her well,” he says, eventually.

“No,” she says, “I don’t think anyone did.”

  
  


.

 

A dead woman follows him around.

“Are you real?” he asks her.

She doesn’t smile this time. Her eyes look sad.

“Does it matter?” she replies.

No, he supposes, it does not.

  
  
  
  



End file.
